Grief Digest Articles

She’s a woman in her mid-sixties and still dresses exclusively in bright neon colors. She cries before she talks. She knows she has come here to discuss her husband’s death. As she wipes her tears I notice her tattoos, so many—so loud. Then I wonder who has more, her or me? Now she sniffs a little and explains she is all cried out. We both know she is lying.I ask her about her life with her husband and she tells story after story that makes me realize we are so different and yet the same. Drug a …

There is a thin place between our ordinary daysA place where miracles happen and mystery dwells.How is it that my fragile heart still beatsdespite hurts deeper than physical wounds alone?Someone beloved has been ripped awayAnd life cannot be what it once was.I need eyes of faith to see what is unseen in this world,Could never explain the deeper meaning of my life…Or of his death.Hope that one day I will understand the incomprehensible why.Trust that this thin place of pain, sorrow and achingIs e …

Sweet nectar-- life giving elixirDistilled from flowers that springFrom the graves of our ancestors, our childrenLoved ones buried long ago or short….Hard to accept their leavingBut struggle is the price for life.The nectar of those precious flowers gives strength for life’s journey.Out of death comes life.Master Gardener,Work the soil of my heart until flowers bloom and I am able to drink your life sustaining gift.ABOUT THE AUTHORDesiree Woodland was born in Bismarck, North Dakota. She and her …

Like the GeeseWe are like the geeseCommitted, enduring, as long as we both shall live.Life does its best to rip us apart,Inserting unspeakable chaosand a thousand daily annoyances through the years.But a promise was made before God,to face the unknown future together.A vision of geese in formation,Strong, surrounded, safe.One struggles and falls back.Her partner watches, slows, and then circles.He pivots once, twice and again, waiting for his mate.She fights against the formidable air currents.D …

The dusky, setting sun pierces my heart with sorrow,a melancholy ache rises as day fades to night.The sun’s glittering shards stretch forth their fingers,but cannot hold onto the last remnants of light.A hint of blue ribbon still touches the horizon,powerless against the encroaching darkness.From what depths does such sadness arise?Perhaps in the cycle of time; ancient as Hyperion’s chariot.He pushes swiftly forward, but just out of reach.In vain he tries to capture the dawn.Hasn’t he learned th …